by David McDine
He had already made up his mind that taking revenge on those who had fingered him would have to be put on hold for a while. Stabbing a sea officer would not be taken lightly and what’s more, he had been recognised. No doubt the whole of Seagate would be on the alert searching for him, so it would be foolhardy to reappear there for a while.
There was no point in hanging about the looker’s hut either. It would likely be only a matter of time before his presence was noticed, and he knew that if the navy got its claws back in him, he risked extreme punishment — especially as the officer he’d attacked knew exactly who he was and that he had been marked as ‘run’ twice now.
No, he couldn’t face that. Instead, an idea occurred to him. Since he was now well outside the law there was only one way he could think of that would enable him to stay free and at the same time make money to keep body and soul together.
But first he must find the kind of men who could help him — smugglers.
*
It was early evening when he came upon the pub with a creaking sign announcing it as the Crooked Billet, opposite the old churchyard in a small Marsh village.
He waited outside beside the churchyard wall for a while and then plucked up courage to go into the pub, hat down over his brow and cudgel under his jacket.
A noisy group of men playing cards occupied a large round table in the corner, but otherwise the bar was empty except for the landlord behind the counter pouring drinks for them and a farmer who had dropped in for a wet on his way home after checking on his flock.
It was one of the scruffiest and most disreputable pubs he’d come across since his Glasgow youth — the kind of establishment, he supposed, where you could walk out leaving a dead dog on the bar and no-one would notice.
Sidling up to the bar, he pointed to a rum bottle, but the gnarled old publican looked to the occupied table.
The men’s leader, a tough-looking ginger-haired man with a scarred cheek, full beard and door handle ears, gave the newcomer the once-over and nodded.
Given the go-ahead, the inn-keeper pushed a heavy glass across the bar and half-filled it. MacIntyre signed for him to top it up and the publican obliged.
To avoid suspicion that he might try to leave without paying, MacIntyre slapped a handful of coins — all he owned in the world right now — on the bar and the landlord took what was owed and left the rest.
The other men drinking at the corner table glanced at the newcomer from time to time. Clearly, he was a sea-farer of some kind, but then so were most of those hereabouts who weren’t shepherds. Some were both smugglers and shepherds — the bat-men who provided protection for smuggling runs and the pack-men who were called upon to take the contraband inland.
This was owlers’ territory, where men had been evading the revenue for countless generations. The free trading had once been in the very wool produced here on the Marsh and those who smuggled it to France where it was worth far more were known by their signal — the hoot of an owl.
Wool had been Britain’s most important and profitable export and the loss to the revenue through smuggling was so serious that those caught running it faced the death penalty. But that had only bred more desperate and harder generations of free traders, ready and willing to deal ruthlessly with anyone who might inform on them.
With the full cooperation of the sheep farmers who themselves benefited from the illicit trade, the owlers had long fostered an atmosphere of fear among the scattered Marsh communities. Those who cooperated and played an active part, however small, were rewarded — but anyone suspected of disloyalty would disappear.
Now it was luxuries: brandy, wine, tobacco, tea and lace that were the main contraband, but those involved in the trade were just as ruthless as their forebears.
It was only natural that a stranger appearing in one of the Marsh pubs would be scrutinised. And the Crooked Billet was well known as a haunt for smugglers, like the group sitting around the corner table haunting it right now.
Their leader finished a hand of cards and looked the interloper over more closely. Those with him fell silent, too. The farmer at the bar sized up the situation, quickly finished his ale and left hurriedly. The less you knew about what went on hereabouts the healthier life was.
MacIntyre took a slurp of his rum, well aware that he was being closely observed.
After a while the smuggler’s leader shrugged and sipped his own drink, satisfied that at any rate the newcomer did not have the look of a revenue man. He was more of a bruiser — a thick-set man, with the look of an old salt, short but with muscular shoulders, shaven head, tattooed neck and nose that had clearly been broken perhaps more than once and had set slightly askew.
After a long pause the ginger-haired man called out: ‘So who might you be, stranger?’
MacIntyre bit back the sharp retort he would have liked to make. There were half a dozen of them, all apparently armed and on their home turf, so he answered, civilly enough. ‘Just a poor seaman, down on his luck.’
‘Irish?’
‘Scottish.’
‘Navy man, is it?’
‘Was.’
‘So, a deserter, then?’
‘Just takin’ a wee bit o’ leave.’
His inquisitor laughed, the rest joined in and MacIntyre forced a grin. The ice was broken.
‘So, what’s your name, mister wee-bit-o’-leave man?’
His real name might be known out this way from his Seagate days, so he chose to give them the one he’d been using since he was pressed. ‘Billy Black.’
‘Now tell us what you’re doing sniffing around these parts, Billy Black. How do we know you’re not spying on the likes of us so you can ’peach us to the revenue men?’
MacIntyre knew they had reached a critical point. If these men believed he was some kind of informer he had no doubt they would have no hesitation in disposing of him, so he chose to level with them.
‘Look, boys, I’m no on leave. I’ve run.’
There was a murmur of surprise from the gang. They’d suspected as much, but had not expected him to admit it.
He added earnestly: ‘So y’can see, there’s no way I want t’mix wi’ the revenue or anyone official like.’
‘You’re a long way from Scotland, Billy Black. So how come you’ve washed up on our patch?’
‘I’m here because I want t’get into the smuggling game.’
This provoked a bigger laugh, and the leader countered: ‘You’ve got some cheek, I’ll say that for you, coming here offering to join like you was ’listing for the army! How d’you know we ain’t off-duty revenue men, or a navy press gang?’
His men laughed heartily at that.
MacIntyre grinned too. ‘Well, I know full well what a press gang looks like and ye don’t act like revenue men. Ye’re all armed, ye’re in a Romney Marsh pub and ye’ve been talking ’bout yer next run, so I reckon ye must be smugglers. Gie me a chance an’ ye’ll no regret it.’
Amused, the leader asked the others: ‘What d’you say, boys?’
The smugglers, entertained by the repartee, wasted no time in agreeing to give the new recruit a trial run. It was obvious that a hard-looking nut like him could be useful as a bat-man protecting the landing beaches and keeping the inland villages on their smuggling route toeing the line.
So, in short order MacIntyre was downing more smuggled spirits, contemplating a comfortable bed at the inn and looking forward to starting his new career on the next run.
Revenge on his Seagate enemies could wait, for a while at least.
8
HMS Phryne
Wedged in a corner of the carriage with his feet braced against the rear-facing seats to steady him as they jolted over potholes, Anson gazed at the familiar Kent countryside.
In just over an hour they had passed Sittingbourne and reached the village of Gillingham. Ahead he could see the Medway — the river that by tradition separated the Kentish Men from the Men of Kent. Having been born south of the river,
he counted himself among the latter.
They descended the long hill into Chatham, where Dodson urged the horses along, occasionally shouting ‘Make way there!’ to encourage idlers out of their path.
Soon they were in Chatham High Street, familiar to Anson with its chandleries, pubs, tailors, tobacconists, tattooists and others who fed off the navy, including the inevitable ever-present cruising whores.
He was eagerly anticipating seeing his old shipmates again — or at least those not dead, time-expired or posted in the meantime — and was especially looking forward to renewing his acquaintance with his particular friends, the first lieutenant, John Howard, and Ned McKenzie of the marines.
Enquiries of the gate-keepers, whose role appeared to be more to do with preventing dockyard mateys making off with official stores than keeping people out, sent him to the gun wharf where the frigate was loading shot.
He remembered with a wry grin the stunt he had pulled a couple of years earlier in jumping the queue to obtain guns for the Seagate battery. His role in helping to end the mutiny at the Nore had stood him in good stead then — plus a sweetener or two for the hammock-counters, of course.
Phryne’s lines were unmistakeable. She had the look of a French frigate, which she had indeed been until her capture and recommissioning for service in the Royal Navy some years before. She was older and carried less armament than the now standard French frigate but nevertheless she was sleek, beautiful and a good sea-keeper. The French naval architects knew their business.
It was the first time Anson had clapped eyes on Phryne since the boats drew away from her off the chalk cliffs of Normandy on their way to attack St Valery-en-Caux.
Before that, he had enjoyed a memorable prize-taking Mediterranean foray in her and he much regretted that he had not been allowed to return as second lieutenant and ended up commanding Sea Fencibles instead.
The arrival of Parkin’s carriage alongside stirred the officer of the watch into action. A carriage hinted at a visitor of some importance and the lieutenant sent a midshipman scurrying off to find the captain.
‘Kindly wait here, Dodman, and I’ll let you know how things stand once I’ve reported on board.’
Parkin’s coachman tapped his hat with his whip. ‘I will, sir. It’ll give me the chance to give these here horses their nosebags and a drink.’
By the time Anson emerged from the carriage and made his way up the gangway and on board to the squeal of a bosun’s call, the captain had been sent for and a small reception party had been hurriedly assembled.
Captain George Phillips, telescope under his arm and hastily-donned hat at a precarious angle, peered in disbelief at the newcomer. ‘Great heavens! Is it you Anson?’
Anson raised his hat with his left hand. ‘It is indeed, sir. My apologies for my long absence and may I say what a great pleasure it is to be back on board Phryne at last!’
He held out his left hand. Slightly puzzled, Phillips nevertheless shook it vigorously and called to the first lieutenant who was busily engaged with some dockyard men: ‘Howard! Look who it is, young Anson back from the dead, albeit with a rearranged face!’
The first lieutenant shrugged the dockyard men aside and joined his captain. ‘Oliver Anson, how very good to see you! We had heard that you had survived France and taken charge of some Sea Fencibles, but we’re dying to hear all about—’
But Phillips interrupted. ‘We’ll save all that for later. For now, we must press on to get everything loaded and shipshape ready to sail on the ebb tide in the morning. You’ll stay on board tonight, Anson?’
Disappointed to hear that the frigate would be sailing so soon, Anson thought that at least one night would be better than nothing and responded, ‘I’d very much like that, sir.’
‘Splendid. Meanwhile Midshipman Foxe here appears to be desperate to renew your acquaintance and he can make himself useful by showing you round the old tub. You’ll find little has changed since you left us so hurriedly. There are quite a few new faces, but still a good many you’ll recognise.’
‘Thank you, sir. I do indeed remember Mister Foxe very well indeed, although I had expected to see him at least an admiral by now!’
Foxe grinned with delight. ‘Not quite yet, sir. I sit my lieutenant’s exam when we get to Portsmouth.’
They set off on a tour of the upper deck and Foxe observed, ‘You appear to have been in the wars, sir.’
‘I acquired these scars at St Valery and Boulogne.’ He patted his arm. ‘But I’m afraid this wasn’t caused by enemy action. Some discontented former member of my Sea Fencible detachment disliked me enough to make his mark on my arm with an extremely sharp knife. However, they tell me I’ll live.’
‘Now, sir, if you’ll step this way we’ll see if you recognise some of the old hands.’
One such was the armourer’s mate Abel Grist, taking advantage of the afternoon sun by squatting on deck cleaning a rack of muskets.
‘Good day to you, Grist. The last time I saw you was the night before the St Valery raid, sharpening bayonets, cutlasses, half pikes and boarding axes.’
Grist knuckled his forehead. ‘That’s right, sir, and we wus right sorry to hear you’d been killed.’
‘That report was a little premature, I fear.’
‘Never mind, sir, ’tis good to see you back from the dead!’
They moved on and came upon the master with the bosun inspecting the rigging. ‘You’ll remember Mister Tutt.’
‘I do indeed. He knows the Channel and its tides, currents and other foibles better than any man alive. A pleasure to see you again, Mister Tutt. You were spot on with your deductions about the currents off St Valery but at the time I didn’t foresee that I’d not be returning to the ship.’
‘But you’re back now, sir, and we’re right glad to see you. Will you be staying with Phryne?’
‘I’m afraid not. Their lordships decided otherwise and I’m trapped in a shore appointment. Nevertheless, it’s a great pleasure to be back on board, even if only for a brief visit.’
Wherever Anson went, above and below deck, he was greeted warmly by the old hands — especially those who had taken part in the abortive boat action in Normandy.
Among a group mending sails, another familiar face greeted him, instantly recognisable as one of the St Valery veterans.
‘Welcome back, sir. Good to see you didn’t snuff it on the mole, like we thought.’
‘Coppins, isn’t it? Very good to see you, too. The last glimpse I had of you was when you were helping the first lieutenant after he injured his leg jumping ashore.’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘But do I detect that you’ve been promoted?’
Coppins grinned. ‘That I have, from sail-maker’s mate to being the main man himself!’
‘Excellent! Your warrant is thoroughly deserved I’m sure, and I wish you joy of it.’
He was chatting to another group of boat raid survivors when a midshipman who looked all of twelve years of age, came panting up, touched his hat and squeaked: ‘Captain’s compliments, sir, and he requests the pleasure of your company in the great cabin.’
*
Captain Phillips was at his desk, pouring himself a large glass of brandy, when Anson knocked and entered.
‘Forgive me, Anson, but I’ve been so damned busy trying to get all the ducks in a row ready for sailing tomorrow that I haven’t had a moment to devote to you. However, Howard and the bosun have everything well in hand, so here I am. Will you take a wet with me?’
‘Thank you, sir, I will if I may.’
Phillips poured him a brandy and ushered him to a seat. Anson asked: ‘I take it you’ve been refitting, sir?
‘No, not a proper refit. Merely getting the dockyard people to put right some of the wear and tear we’ve suffered remaining so long on blockade duty.’
The captain sipped his brandy and Anson nodded sympathetically.
‘You’ll recall what a hammering our ships endure in
the Channel and the Bay of Biscay, eh? So we needed to come in to replace broken and warped timbers, stop up leaks with oakum and pitch — that sort of thing. We’ve got new sails to replace torn and rotten ones, new ropes and so on. Plus, we’ve been taking on stores of course.’
There was a knock and the purser, new to Anson, appeared, seeking the captain’s signature.
Signing the paper without reading it, Phillips turned to his visitor again. ‘So, we’re delighted to see you again, Anson, but forgive me for asking: is there some particular reason for your visit other than merely to see the good ship Phryne and renew old friendships?’
Anson took a gulp before answering with a splutter as the spirit burned its way down. ‘To be honest with you, sir, I am not sailing under full canvas at present. I was wounded during the Boulogne affair and then attacked by a disgruntled former bosun of my Sea Fencible detachment.’
‘In the wars again, eh? And winged by one of your own?’
‘Indeed, sir. At any rate, against my will I’ve been ordered to take six weeks off and I’m staying with a friend of mine down near Faversham to convalesce. It was he who spotted an item in the newspaper about Phryne refitting at Chatham and suggested a visit might do me good.’
Phillips snorted: ‘Damned news-sheets — always giving away information about our deployments to make things easy for the enemy! And what’s worse, it’s pretty well the only kind of thing the confounded scribblers get right!’
‘Couldn’t agree more, sir, but on this occasion it was the paper that sparked the idea of visiting Phryne.’
‘Of course.’ The captain nodded understandingly. ‘So a chance to visit us and get some sea air to clear out your lungs and lift your spirits as well, eh?
‘Just so.’
‘Well, I’m afraid you’ll breathe precious little clean sea air here at Chatham. All you’ll get here is the malodorous stink of river mud mixed with sewage!’
